


Somebody That I Used To Know

by jdmcool



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-12
Updated: 2012-04-12
Packaged: 2017-11-03 13:01:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/381620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdmcool/pseuds/jdmcool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At a gathering at 221B Baker Street, Lestrade runs into somebody that he used to know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somebody That I Used To Know

**Author's Note:**

> Written to and inspired by Gotye's [Somebody That I Used to Know](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8UVNT4wvIGY). Might have gotten away from me length wise just a bit.

It was rather nice being invited to Baker Street for a small get together. Greg Lestrade knew it was the doing of John, but that was no reason to turn it down. He liked both men, even if Sherlock could be a royal pain in the arse. And, if he was to be perfectly honest with himself, he had been looking forward to the gathering for awhile. Even the fact that he was arriving expectedly solo couldn’t deter him.

Making his way up to the flat, he’d had been rather pleased to find everyone there. Well, not Donovan or Anderson, but he knew that neither of them were likely to grace the place unless there was a chance of arresting Sherlock and that wasn’t likely to happen any time soon. It was all a part of the fact that, unlike his co-workers, he had somehow set himself apart and earned a place in Sherlock’s good graces.

Certainly something to be enjoyed, along with Mrs. Hudson's conversation about her relationship with a local shop owner who was real sweet and charming, always giving her little discounts and the sort. And quite the looker too.

Laughing, he nodded. “Well I’m happy for you,” he said happily.

“Thank you, Greg. Oh and where’s your wife?” She asked curiously.

“Couldn’t make it.”

Thankfully, she knew enough about his relationship to settle for that. Patting his arm,  she smiled and said, “Maybe next time.”

They both knew that it wasn’t likely, but he did so adore her false optimism.

“I think the last of our guests just arrived,” she said, the sound of the door closing giving away someone’s arrival.

Smirking, Greg asked, “Invited that man of yours?”

“Me? Oh no. John did all the inviting for this,” Mrs. Hudson laughed.

Whatever she said next was lost on him. Instead, he watched as she moved to greet the newcomer along with John. Everything seemed to fall silent as he looked at the man in the nice suit and perfectly matched tie, watching as he nodded along and smiled politely at whatever it was they were talking about. A simple black umbrella hanging off his arm that made Greg feel sick.

_Now and then I think of when we were together, Like when you said you felt so happy you could die._

It was the first thing Greg had noticed about the man. While most people fell in love with a smile or a laugh, he fell in love with the comfortable distance the man carried himself with, holding an umbrella against the rain that no one but he seemed to have predicted. The feeling that the man before him would listen to every problem a person might have only to never actually share any part of himself with another person. Yet, when the man in the suit with the umbrella had asked him out to coffee as a sort of apology that Scotland Yard had done all the work only to have the man and his team of suits take credit for it all. He knew he had just ruined Greg’s chance to set himself apart from everyone else at the Yard as well as the young detective.

If he had known what would come from the man not much younger than himself, but far to young to have a team of government agents at his disposal, Greg knew that he would’ve still went along. He would’ve let the man take him out, casually holding out that umbrella over Greg’s already drenched head. He would still sit there, actually conversing with the man who never gave his name. Let him drop him off back home where his wife was waiting.

Everything that would come later was worth the way the young official grabbed his hand as he got out of the car, causing Greg to look back and catch the parted lips and vulnerable eyes as the man asked if he was free that weekend to go over the case. It was a ploy, as they had gotten everything and Greg knew that he had a party that he had promised his wife he would attend. Every single reason that came to mind as he agreed to what he had refused to call a date meaning nothing.

Because the fact of the matter was, as the casual meets turned into something he refused to place a name to, he enjoyed the man’s company. Had to have considering Greg knew what the man’s mouth tasted like after too much brandy, crushed against his own with a desperation because neither of them wanted to break away for fear that what had been an nervous move on Greg’s part might be deemed a drunken mistake. So instead he fisted his hand in the young official’s jacket as the man tugged at his hair.

When his leg fell between the man’s thighs, brushing against an obvious erection, Greg knew that he was in over his head. That what he was doing was because of his job, because he knew nothing about the other man, because he had his eyes shut tightly to prevent catching the glint of his wedding ring in the sliver light coming from the street. A myriad of reasons that fought to be heard against the rush of blood in his ears as the man’s hand found its way into his trousers and when it began to stroke his straining cock, they lost.

That was the night that he found out two facts he would come to regret: that lying to his wife about where he had been was easier than he’d have ever thought and that the man that he found himself falling for against all costs came with a name, Mycroft Holmes.

Because for every good moment that came with Mycroft’s politely shy demeanour  during every date and undone behaviour whenever they went at it like fevered school boys in the man’s flat or black sedans or on top of every surface Greg had ever made memory on with his wife, there was an opposite one. The kind of moments that made even the way Mycroft confessed his love for him, lying under the duvet his wife had bought the weekend before, seem meaningless.

_Told myself that you were right for me But felt so lonely in your company, But that was love and it's an ache I still remember._

Perhaps he should’ve seen it coming. Should’ve seen the risks that lay ahead with a clarity that came from looking past the surface of what they had, but that would’ve meant confronting the obvious and Greg couldn’t bring himself to do that most days. There was no benefit in acknowledging the fact that the man he was desperately in love with didn’t always sit right with him.

Because even when the need to leave straight after sex was gone, there was no stopping Mycroft from doing just that. Greg could almost pinpoint the moment that post coital bliss had faded away. There was simply a look that he had become morbidly fascinated with, watching for it like a hawk as he trailed his fingers along the soft hairs leading down to Mycroft’s navel and beyond. It was a hard look of pure ice as the man would sit up and excuse himself to the bathroom, coming back looking as though nothing had happened as Greg continued to lie there in bed they had both sullied time and time again.

It hurt, but it made sense. To expect a man who seemed intent to run the entire government to stay there with him was ridiculous. Mycroft had an important job and Greg knew in the back of his head, what they were doing was less a forbidden romance and more that of a hooker and her john. Watching Mycroft leave under the mention of business or paperwork, he often caught himself wondering which part he actually played in their farce.

Because even when he didn’t leave, it was more than apparent when the man simply shut him out. A difficulty in the government, some scandal. There were a million and one reasons that the sweet man who claimed to love him time and time again would hide behind the cold facade of a man who was never out of control. A man who could take Greg out to dinner and not be the least bit flustered when he introduce the detective as his friend to an associate in a tone that conveyed that they were so much more and dared them to say something about it.

Something that should’ve made him proud, the way Mycroft was so comfortable him, made Greg feel more like a prize capture mounted on display for the world to see. Nothing more than that easy distance that reminded him in the dead of the night, lying in bed with the other that he knew nothing of Mycroft Holmes that one couldn’t find out at a casual party. He was well off and worked for the government, a man with some clout to his name, but while Greg knew how to make Mycroft’s eyes roll back as he moaned indecently loud, not caring who heard, he knew little of where his lover came from before the black sedans were around to take him from place to place.

An elephant in the room that only continued to grow in size with every day. Something that probably would’ve driven him mad if he hadn’t already been avoiding it just like the one that came when Mycroft was gone and he was left with a wife who had stopped begging him to work less, to spend more time at home. When she found a silk tie, a light blue that complimented Mycroft’s eyes, among the pile of clothes she’d been folding, she didn’t even question it. Merely met the guilty look on his face with a quiet resolve and continued on with her chore.

_You can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness, Like resignation to the end Always the end._

The fact that things got better rather than worse was something he endured. Merely going along with what was obviously his role in a piece that would’ve made Shakespeare jealous. A hapless DI making a way for himself and rising to new levels in his professional life while his private one fell like leaves in the autumn. His wife, who had finally broke and asked if he was having an affair with some slut from his job or someone he met on the street.

The look in her eyes alone when the realization of his statements sank in was always something that hung in the back of his head when he would come to ask her about her own affairs years later. He watched her heart shatter when she knew he meant it when he said that he was sleeping with some woman, that no one had bought him the ties or the umbrella that sat by the door. That the influx of music he didn’t even like and different colognes wasn’t his effort to impress some girl.

And then there was his secret lover in it all to add a new layer as he reached his goals. When he became the British Government itself, Greg knew. He knew it from the way the man had laid there, not even bothering to pretend like he was doing anything more than letting Greg get off while he sorted out international affairs in his head. He knew what it was his wife had to be suffering through and just like her he couldn’t walk away.

He stayed there and watched that paper work build up slowly, a taunt that he was no longer the focus of Mycroft’s mind. That he was never going to be man’s great love now that he had found another. Where Greg felt he would’ve given up everything for the man, Mycroft couldn’t even coaxed to take a break. Instead, Greg found his name being placed in a tidy diary meant to keep Mycroft’s schedule in order. Pencilled in between the Diogenes Club and dinner with foreign dignitaries.

What was even worse about the entire situation was that Greg was only too happy to wait it out. The signs were there and as obvious as could be, but he stayed. He stuck around through all of Mycroft’s business trips and rejections of his advances because he loved the man. He had loved him when things were bad and found that he couldn’t bring himself to quit entirely simply because they had only become worse.

Mycroft’s tone as he ever so politely asked if Greg shouldn’t have been home with his wife instead, as she seemed to be considering the advances of a neighbour was nothing but pouring petrol on a flame. A chance for him to leave on his own terms for all that the statement had stung at the time. But he had chosen to stay, to claim that he knew his wife would never cheat on him and make Mycroft rethink his schedule because he wasn’t going to let the man deny or ignore him again. Not if this was going to be the end.

_So when we found that we could not make sense, Well you said that we would still be friends But I'll admit that I was glad that it was over._

He had always felt that it should’ve been raining when things finally did come to an end. Let everything go full circle. Instead, it was a beautiful day that found had found them both inside the Diogenes Club. He sat on the edge of his chair, hair in disarray, not that it made much of a difference, as Mycroft dusted his clothes off before sitting down across from him.

It would’ve taken someone with Mycroft’s perception to notice that the grain of the carpeting was slightly askew near the legs of the chair. A likely result from Greg pounding into the other man as best he could while seated. Something that wasn’t necessary in the slightest from the way Mycroft had been riding him, mouth slack in a well practised silence, wearing nothing more than his now buttoned shirt, the back slightly wrinkled from where had Greg had gripped at it. The hint of a darkening bruise blossoming just above the collar of Mycroft’s shirt.

In that moment of false modesty in front of each other, after a most scandalous act that none of the members would ever speak about, that Mycroft smiled at him and confessed that acts of that nature needed to come to an end.

Quite possibly the nicest phrasing for a break up Greg had ever heard, but it wasn’t as though he had expected anything less. Hell, just hearing those words left him feeling relieved. Regardless of whether he loved the man or not, he knew that he couldn’t keep it up. Not with the way they had been driving each other to the brink. If not for the fact that it had been weeks since he had seen the other man and he had long since gave up on anything physical with his wife, Greg could almost believe that the sex would’ve never happened.

So he nodded in agreement. Said that he had felt the same way for some time now and simply didn’t know how to say it. A truth to keep Mycroft from focusing on the joy he knew the man would see bubbling under the surface as though Mycroft could read minds. No, entirely because Mycroft could read minds, or his, at the very least.

His once politely shy official looked almost relieved that things had went so well, offered to remain friends since it was only the sex that couldn’t continue. After all, he did still care about the detective, just not in the way he once had. Part of him wanted to ask if Mycroft had found someone else, but knew it was best that he didn’t. He merely agreed that being friends would be a pleasure and resigned himself to the day that he would eventually have to see his new mate with someone else.

When they stood, they shook hands like men in Mycroft’s world had for generations and before Greg pulled him into a fierce embrace that he had been surprised to find returned. Much like so many other things, he had never really known that Mycroft was not only capable, but willing to hug. Breaking away from each other, they had smiled. There had even been an agreement to meet up for lunch when Mycroft could find the time. If that hadn’t been a red flag, the comfortably distanced look in his eyes should’ve been.

_But you didn't have to cut me off, Make out like it never happened And that we were nothing._

The fact that nothing had come from that day didn’t hit him until he had the misfortune of meeting a young man who fancied himself an alternative far greater than the yard. He was cocky and so terribly smug with the way he lorded his brilliance over everyone. It made Greg sick to his stomach at first. Then he had found out about the man’s addiction issues. Even with how much the man annoyed him, finding him strung out and desperate was not something that he could ignore. So he prompted and prodded until the man gave him someone to call.

He didn’t catch the arrival of the black sedan, but when he found himself faced with the man in the neatly pressed suit and cold eyes, Greg wasn’t entirely certain that Sherlock hadn’t somehow managed to get him high by mere contact. As it was, that was the day that he had found out something he should’ve known ages ago: Mycroft Holmes was not, in fact, a man born from nowhere, but someone with parents and a brilliant, junkie brother. Someone the man loved dearly for all that he could’ve been ashamed.

When Sherlock made the half arsed attempt to introduce them, Greg started to correct him. He had no problem admitting that he knew the young man’s brother, but clearly, for all the pride had once taken in his friend, Mycroft merely nodded and greeted him as though they had never met. It was enough to leave him standing there, dumbstruck at the other’s behaviour.

Yet, he was only too eager to find some excuse for that in the fact that Sherlock was in no condition for truths. In desperate need for a careful detox or to hit the drugs hard, Sherlock Holmes was a priority for the both of them, as Greg felt an even stronger need to help. Getting him out to the car, he helped Mycroft carefully put him in the front seat, pointedly ignoring every needy plea that came from the man he had thought he hated.

Shutting the door, he had been only too eager to chat up the man, knowing that his timing was poor. After all, Sherlock was sweating and shivering in the car. But that didn’t make even half the impact that the sudden reconnection with Mycroft did. Resting a hand on the other’s shoulder out of comfort, he had stood in shock when the man jerked away.

Whether it was the worry or just who he had become over the seemingly endless amount of time since he had seen the man, the person before him wasn’t his Mycroft any longer and had no qualms about making that clear. The way he had said that they were nothing and never had been and that anything that might have been between them was dead and buried and definitely not the business of Sherlock was painful. If he hadn’t felt hurt when they’d broken up, he certainly did then. So he tried to argue, point out that he wasn’t just going to pretend to not know Mycroft when he could still vividly recall every inch of his body.

The reply to that was the not so subtle point that there were plenty more things that he had never known. The sort that he would be most unfortunate to learn, or so Mycroft claimed as he pulled on his leather gloves. Even one without the Holmes brothers’ intellect could tell the obvious threat being made and knowing that Mycroft had been able to run a group of agents even when they had first met, he nodded along and suffered quietly every time the Holmes in Sherlock shone a little too bright from then on.

_And I don't even need your love But you treat me like a stranger And that feels so rough._

Even standing in the room with him with him now, with everyone around made Greg feel like he had that night, watching the man get into the car without so much as a goodbye. Even if he could come up with a kilometre long list of reasons for why Mycroft had said what he had said that night, it wouldn’t have mattered. Gone were there days where he tried to justify the man’s behaviour. Instead, he simply took it for what it was: a sort of proof that comfortably distant man greatly enjoyed the distance that kept him a mystery to all those around him.

Or, at the very least Greg, since the only other person he wanted to believe didn’t know the man as well as he did was Molly. After all, Sherlock was the man’s brother and there was simply no hiding one’s life from family, nor should there have been a reason to. John seemed comfortable around Mycroft in a way that made Greg feel jealous and protective of the soldier. He’d have given his left arm to still have that kind of closeness with Mycroft in the past and he’d willingly risk his right keeping John from even hovering around that great chasm of despair he had once fallen into.

Standing near the door with his drink, Greg was startled to find someone tapping his shoulder. Looking towards them, he smiled at Mrs. Hudson and the kind look on her face.

“Oh, Greg, I wanted to introduce you to Sherlock’s brother, Mycroft. I wasn’t sure if you had met,” she said, a small look of confusion tainting the overall look of joy on her face.

Nodding, he shook Mycroft’s outstretched hand and muttered, “We’ve met.”

Mrs. Hudson seemed pleasantly surprised as she began to prattle on about what a good thing it was that everyone knew everyone, how nice it was to have a nice show of Sherlock’s friends every now and again. Nothing that even came close to mattering when Mycroft stood before him, his smile perfectly polite while his eyes flayed Greg alive.

Then someone was calling Mrs. Hudson and their polite conversation came to an end as she excused herself, not knowing just what she had done. Mycroft waited the appropriate amount of time, staring at Greg yet focused on anything else. It was nothing he wanted to watch, the detective thought as he turned his head.

Clearing his throat, Mycroft nodded and said, “It was a pleasure seeing you again.” Nothing but false niceties as he began to walk away.

Catching the man’s arm, he bit at the inside of his mouth, mind screaming at him for an answer for the sudden action. The violent wondering of just what the hell he thought he was doing matched in Mycroft’s still calm eyes. An emotion simmering below the surface.

“Can we talk?”

It wasn’t a question; for all that it was phrased like one. Questions didn’t sit waiting for the right moment to pounce. They didn’t involve a tightened hand around a deceptively soft arm. There was no hard grit of teeth when they were asked and reason to tense with anger on for that fraction of a second before conceding and leading the way into Sherlock’s room. If Sherlock noticed them, because Sherlock noticed everything, he didn’t brother to interfere.

_You didn't have to stoop so low Have your friends collect your records And then change your number._

Standing in Sherlock’s room, Greg wanted to laugh with how it could be so terribly simple. A simple statement and there they were, together in the same place, the space between them as they stood on opposite sides of the room failing to come anywhere near the distance that only lingered in their minds.

The one that had left Greg frantically explaining that the young woman in the apartment was merely there to get things for a friend of his. His tone verging on a scream because he wasn’t having an affair with the young brunette that carried herself in a way that reeked of Mycroft as much as the soft smell of cologne that seemed to cling to her as she brushed by him upon entering his home.

Happy or not with the result of things, he had been so pissed that day. That after weeks of not returning his calls the bastard had had the audacity to send someone to get his things. Not even Mycroft could be so busy that a simple stop to pick up all the little trinkets meticulously left in his place was too much of an inconvenience. Hell, the arse probably didn’t even need any of it back, he was just removing all evidence from the scene for his own safety after slaughtering his promise that nothing would change that much. That they would still be friends because they were both bloody adults and could act that way.

Leaning against the wall, he remembered the way it had felt to do the same thing in his own room. Listening to the rant his wife had worked herself into until that bloody girl poked her head into the room, hair sweeping across her shoulders as she canted her head and asked if the record in her hand was his or not.

He wanted to spit out that it was Mycroft’s and that she could tell the man he was a coward. How he was happy to be rid of everything that belonged to the sod because if he couldn’t even face the problem himself, well then it was better that they didn’t bother speaking ever again. But with his wife on the verge of turning her anger on the girl, standing there with a pissed look that said he had better get her out quickly, he simply said it wasn’t his and resigned himself to the silence.

A silence, he found, he no longer had to keep with the way Mycroft was watching him, waiting expectantly for him to make the first move.

_I guess that I don't need that though, Now you're just somebody that I used to know._

Opening his mouth, he paused as he bit his the inside of his cheek. Letting out a breath, he spat out, “You always going to pretend you’ve never met me?”

“I would’ve told Mrs. Hudson that we’ve met before because we have,” Mycroft explained calmly. Running a finger over Sherlock’s nightstand with a disapproving noise, he added, “We met when you called me about my brother.”

“We met when you ruined the case of my life and then asked me out,” Greg said, straining himself to keep his tone quiet.

Mycroft arched a brow at him. “Why do you insist on dwelling on that?”

“Because it happened, you... I was happily married before you.”

“Don’t tell me you’re actually going to blame me for the fact that your wife hasn’t trusted you in ages, cheating on you with... a banker. Although there was a PE teacher before that,” he said, reading into the same signs that Sherlock had around Christmas.

How they did that Greg didn’t even care. Running a hand through his hair to keep himself calm, he tugged at it, blocking out one pain with another. “You loved me.”

“I also used to be particularly fond of a light blue budgie my mother kept in the study. But, as I’m certain you’ve realized, things change.”

“Yeah. Learned that real quick. How soon was it after we ended things did you change your number Mycroft? A few weeks? Two months?”

“Eighteen days,” the man said, the matter of fact tone of voice leaving Greg stunned.

If had cared, he was certain that the man could’ve broke it down to the hours and minutes, bloody nanoseconds if need be. Not like Greg, who’s mind was frantically trying to figure out whether or not he had made the effort to call the other in that time. He wanted to believe that he had. And that, if that was the case, Mycroft had simply avoided his calls on purpose.

The question of whether or not that was the intent from the moment they’d called it quits sat heavily on his tongue as he ignored it in favour of merely saying, “Oh and here I thought you rushed into it.”

“Why do you still care, Greg?”

“Are you serious? After everything, you really have to ask that?!” He yelled. Pressing his fist to his mouth, he waited to see if anyone would actually worry about the row they seemed to be working up to.

_Now and then I think of all the times you screwed me over But had me believing it was always something that I'd done._

The question may have seemed obtuse, but it wasn’t done intentionally. Mycroft knew that, while his behaviour had left something to be desired, that he wasn’t in that boat alone. Whatever it was that the detective had been making himself believe over the years, it damn sure wasn’t the entire truth.

The fact that he wasn’t the only one who had made things difficult had become lost. Those first few times that Greg had been the one to flee the scene or start glancing at his watch every forty-two seconds, waiting for them to go their separate ways so that he could go back to being the loving husband to a beautiful wife Mycroft despised because of the simple fact that he could never distract his lover from her forever.

When she finally started to catch onto the situation, Mycroft had been the one to deal with the angry DI. Forced to come as close to begging for the man to stay as he could even though they both knew that the man would go nowhere. He was in love too, he just wanted to feel vindicated in his choice to carry on, splitting himself between two people while Mycroft was forced to silently suffer through it all. He wasn’t a mistress and he would never ask Greg to leave his wife, he always reminded himself.

Not that it was a hard thing to remember when every cancelled appointment came with a row whenever it concerned his job as if only Greg could break dinner dates and time spent together. He was the one with a wife and a very dangerous job and somehow that had made everything alright. For Mycroft to cancel because of an official meeting he couldn’t actually discuss or an assignment he needed to see through for the sake of the nation, not that he could ever say such a thing, he was the bad guy. He was the one that deserved to be yelled at.

And God help him if he hadn’t went along with it for the simple fact that he had upset his  already stressed lover and Mycroft didn’t mean to do that. Not during the time he would’ve done anything to make the man happy. Back then he had truly believed that it was his fault and done all that he could to fix the problem until he realized that he was sacrificing his own goals for nothing more than the benefit of sleeping with a married man.

_And I don't want to live that way Reading into every word you say._

It had been the straw that had broke the horse’s back, in a way, as that one realization snow balled out of control in the last few months. A tiny thought that grew to include how much he hated how no matter what Greg said, Mycroft felt he had to analyze it. Every time he claimed to love him, Mycroft couldn’t help but take in the way that his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes or that his caresses had long since grown mechanical. There he had been, at least trying, and Greg was shutting down, only forcing himself to go along with it all.

Nothing that he had ever done for the man could’ve been enough to warrant putting up with that sort of behaviour. Busy or not, he still deserved better. Better than a man caught in a foursome with his job, his wife and a lover he clearly didn’t love anymore. The fact that he had put off ending things as long as he had was nothing short of his own limitations as a person, not that many would believe that he had them.

The idea that the British Government would allow himself to stay in a constant battlefield of a relationship for the mere fact that he was in love seemed ludicrous. Even with his own dwindling affections, it never seemed to take more than a sleepy smile after a night of doing nothing more than holding each other tightly against a world that they didn’t want to be a part of or the hurt look in his eyes as his brows knit together to make his tentative resolve shatter.

Those foolish little reasons that people choose to stay miserable for love were what convinced him that he needed to end things. Tidying himself up after their tryst in the Diogenes Club, after he had called the man there for the simple sake of cutting things off quickly, he had been so willing to go back on his plans and instead commit himself to working things out as best they could.

But then there had been Greg. The way that he still sat on the edge of his seat, pants pulled up now, looking upset as Mycroft didn’t feel for letting it happen was enough to convince Mycroft that he had to go through with it. So he had and they had agreed that everything would be the same, minus their dangerous liaison. Words said out of desperation on his part, while Greg seemed to take comfort in him.

It was after the sixth ignored call from his ex lover that made him change his number. A compliment from Anthea on how he should wear more blue ties, if only for the way they brought out his eyes,  that reminded him of the one he had lost to Greg in their split. The way that fact sat in the pit of his stomach for weeks that made him send her out to the Lestrades’ to retrieve all that he had lost, a package that got sent out later in the week returning what he had of Greg’s.

If it hadn’t been for Sherlock, he would’ve never given the man another thought, but he was hardly surprised that, even clueless to a situation, Sherlock could still get at him. And it was the thought of that night, firmly put off for all those years that made him feel bitter because, damn it all, none of this should’ve been happening.

Not now, not ever, he decided as he crossed the room to the other man.

“You said that you could let it go,” Mycroft shot back venomously, finger prodding him in the chest accusingly. “And I wouldn't catch you hung up on somebody that you used to know.”

“But you didn't have to cut me off,” Greg said smacking the other’s hand away. “Make out like it never happened and that we were nothing.”

As he still couldn’t understand the reasoning behind that, nor did he want to. Sure, what they had didn’t work out, but that in no way warranted the complete rewriting of how they had met, merely two men, so much younger than they were now, for more reasons than the years that had passed.

If those two people could see what Greg knew had to look like a standoff, he knew that they would’ve been disgusted. The beauty of a younger love corrupted into something not even he could truly recognize as he wasn’t fighting this for himself, but for another Greg who would remain heartbroken in a forgotten moment in time forever. A man on a dark night who had been too dumbstruck by a drug addicted detective’s brother to form the words that seemed so necessary now, even if the moment was still wrong.

With his luck, it would never actually be right anyways, making the entire idea moot.

“And I don't even need your love, but you treat me like a stranger and that feels so rough,” he added, not wanting Mycroft to mistake anything for the idea that he was still in love.

It was merely the outpouring of years of myriad of emotions to the man since Greg knew that he wasn’t still hurt. Or rather, he hadn’t been until he had entered 221B, had seen the ever so sensible man standing around, comfortable and happy in a way that Greg had written off as a mere fantasy when he thought back on what they had had. But if Mycroft understood any of that, he hid it well. Standing there as stiff as a statue, one wrong comment from curling his lips in disgust at Greg’s display.

Clenching his jaw when Mycroft looked away from him with soft scoff, Greg wanted to scream. No, he deserved to be listened to, damn it. To be acknowledge after everything that Mycroft had put him through. Even if he hadn’t always been happy, he had been in love. He had risked everything only to lose the man he had loved and one of his best friends. A man he had felt would be there for him when things when his wife merely grew worse over the years.

When Mycroft did finally look at him, it was resolute. Another clever response, some kind of excuse for the way that things had turned out. Another reason it had been all his fault. Slamming his back against the wall, bodies close and heated for all the wrong reasons, he covered the man’s mouth before he could say anything.

“No, you didn't have to stoop so low. Have your friends collect your records and then change your number.” Because nothing could be said to undo that. Undo the complete severing of all ties that had taken place after they had agreed, after Mycroft had bloody well promised him that they would keep in touch. That the only thing loss was the sexual component of their relationship.

But staring into those ever so cold eyes, Greg found himself turning away from the other man. Moving back, he ran his hand through his hair and shrugged it off, completely drained of everything that he had been bottling up over the years. It wasn’t even worth it anymore.

“I guess that I don't need that though. Now you're just somebody that I used to know,” he said with a sad smile.

If there was anything that the man wanted to say, it never came. Once the sound of John knocking on the door, asking if everything was alright came, they both stiffened and did their best to look casual. Falling back into the routine of trying to feign ignorance in the presence of others. Brushing himself off, Mycroft didn’t say anything. Instead, he gave a terse smile and a polite nod before walking off, brushing past a very confused John, who didn’t question a thing when he noticed the pissed look on Greg’s face. Probably chalked it up to another bad chat with another annoying Holmes, not that he was all that wrong, really.

He didn’t actually care what John thought, though. He simply turned his head away, trying not to dwell bitterly on how Mycroft had slipped away yet again. When he felt his eyes start to sting, he closed them and took a deep breath before walking out as well to head back to the small party of sorts.

_Somebody I used to know Somebody That I used to know._

It felt like hours he had been standing in the doorway of the kitchen, the natural place to settle when he rejoined everyone. Somewhere to lurk quietly, not that he was being purposefully rude through the party. No, when John or Mrs. Hudson came up to him to chat, he put on his best smile and did just that. Thought that things were going rather swimmingly when he heard the small chuckle of the eldest Holmes and didn’t outwardly wince.

He wasn’t going to let the other man chase him out of the flat when he had been invited. Nor was he going to let it bother him that, if he was perfectly honest with himself, Mycroft likely didn’t care either way about his presence. They had been nothing to each other for far too long for one conversation to change anything.

With a sigh he turned toward the woman next to him, trying to find it in him to say something upbeat and interesting, but couldn’t.

Molly bit her lip a bit nervously before asking, “Is everything alright? Something bothering you?”

Focused on where Mycroft stood across the room, sniping at his brother as he pointedly avoided looking anywhere near where Greg stood, he sighed and decided that he was done living in such a way. Turning his attention toward Molly, he let himself relax for the first time in what felt like years.

“Somebody...” 


End file.
